Monsters
by SelectricSheep
Summary: Mind control from the other side? Read on.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm testing the waters with this one. If y'all like it, it will likely be a longish story that'll take me a while to finish. **_**Warning**_**: It's going to get pretty graphic soon, so don't read if you're squeamish. Thanks for taking a look.**

Most monsters don't have claws or fangs or scales and they don't hide in the dark. Most monsters seem just like you and me. You'd never know what they are to look at them – the evil hidden in the recesses of their minds, where nobody can touch it. Nobody can touch it. But it can touch anybody.

Kevin Pratchet had been alone for a long time. He had many good qualities that he reminded himself of constantly: he was smart (_very_ smart), he made good pancakes, he was less than ugly, and he was an unassuming sleeper – only taking as much bed space as was required to keep a person of his size comfortable. And yet, he was always alone. He couldn't figure it. No friends, no girlfriends, or even close acquaintances. As much as it didn't make sense to him, he was resigned to accepting it. He stopped trying to change his fate and he stopped going out. _I'm just different_ he told himself. After all, different is a good thing and it rationalized his seclusion without making it his fault.

Kevin was so successful at persuading himself of the exceptional uniqueness that prevented him from socializing that his isolation became a matter of obscene pride to him – more than that, an obsession. Despite that, he was grateful when the voices started.

**It might be a couple of chapters before we see our trio. I don't know yet.**


	2. Chapter 2

Really, only one voice, the other was his. Yet it was like another him. Slightly different and bolder, but level with him in understanding and opinions. That alone was like a shot of relief to Kevin. He didn't have to explain anything or restrain his thoughts and fantasies. It was exhilarating in its dichotomy – a "friend" as close to him as his thoughts and his seclusion in tact. Excellent.

_We should get some new books. The ones here have been handled too much. You have tainted them, looked through them more than they deserve. No thing should be pressured with such expectation. I want something new to read with a clean mind._

"OK. I guess we could go to that place near campus. That little bastard usually has a good stock – he cheats anyone stupid enough to bring him something without knowing every detail about it first."

_Yes. Let's go now. _

As the two started to leave the apartment, Kevin stopped to collect his keys and wallet. He took a long look around his forlorn domicile – grey everywhere, every surface covered by a film of its own grime that had worked around the tiny rooms until it cycled back to its original resting place. It was all covered in different forms of him: his hair that formed in balls in the corner, his skin oils that tinted his possessions with a dirty sheen, his dead skin that layered flat surfaces with a coating of dust. The thought that no piece of another human being had diluted his "presence" in years clouded his mind with a sobering depression until he brightened at the realization that he was no longer alone.

_Are we going to leave soon, or do you wish to know what rigor mortis feels like?_

Kevin snapped from his reverie and strode quickly from the house, nearly forgetting to bolt the door behind him. His thought was blinded by an overwhelming and irrational confidence unlike any sensation he was familiar with. It was intoxicating and consuming – what he imagined a good drug trip to be like.

Deeply concentrated on his new happiness, he turned his body on autopilot, trusting his feet to take him where they frequented so long ago. He was dumb to his surroundings until he stumbled on a curb and crashed face-first into a fire hydrant. Blood spurted from the gash below his left eye, draining into his mouth and coloring his vision red. For no reason other than to distract his mind from the pain with movement, he crouched low to the ground, head hung, left hand crushing his broken cheek with excess pressure and right hand grabbing the offending fire hydrant.

"Ah, shit. Aow, God, I know why dogs piss on you little fuckers. Death traps!" He screamed the last sentence, while seriously looking the fire hydrant in the "face." He might have been crying, but the blood masked everything, including the reality that he was nowhere near the bookstore that was his target. This became apparent when a hesitant voice spoke at his side, "Hey, mister, you ok?"

Kevin growled, and started to bark the obvious, when he looked up and saw a tight little hooker listing slightly toward him, looking concerned and oh, so helpful.

"Oh, God, look at your face. Come on, you should go to a hospital or something."

Kevin allowed her to help him up and stabilize his pained stumbling. He followed her down the street.

_Mmm. Getting out can be good for you._


	3. Chapter 3

"Walter, I said we could drop by the lab for you pick up some stuff, not so you could spend the _entire morning_ trying to develop a low cholesterol recipe for pigeon giblets."

"But, Peter, pigeons are the ideal subject for such a concoction given their availability and unique nutritional conditioning. While they are provided with copious amounts of high-gluten, fattening foods, they are just kept from turning into flabby, gelatinous blobs by the necessity to avoid getting hit by motor cars and pedi-cabs. Because of this—"

"Walter, stop. We were supposed to leave three hours ago. I want to go _now_. I want to go on my vacation."

"But I just have to render the—"

"Now."

"But—"

"Now."

"Well, you don't have to be such a Nazi about it, always so impatient. Your mother used to say you were—"

"Walter. Door. Now."

Walter grumbled bitter complaints into the collar of his sweater as he clambered up the stairs to collect his coat and travel lab kit (which Peter had unsuccessfully attempted to convince him not to take with them). Peter stared blankly at the floor, shaking his head at the prospect dealing with Walter for ten days without Astrid distracting the old man for an hour or two when things got thick. But he shook the dread quickly when he remembered the unlimited wonders of the place where they had rented a cabin. Yes, he would have fun.

Olivia and Astrid stood to the side, watching the two men bicker and snipe, Olivia wondering how neither of them had killed the other, Astrid shaking her head and giggling at the interaction.

"Oh, Peter," Walter said frantically, looking up from putting on his boots, "I neglected to pack additional underwear; we need to go home and get some in case I piss—"

"Stop. We're not going to the house. Just wear the ones you've got inside out when you take a bath. Besides, you rarely wear any to begin with."

"Because I—"

"Prefer the breeze, yes, I know. Now get out."

This elicited a disturbed shudder from the girls and a sheepish grin from Walter as he shuffled out the door mumbling something about "restriction" and impatience that everyone was glad not to hear. Peter paused before leaving and sighed, exasperated, "See you two later, don't work too hard."

"See, ya Peter. Have fun," replied Astrid.

"Don't let Walter fall asleep in your bed," Olivia laughed.

Peter emitted a groaning chuckle. "Separate rooms, thank God," he said over his shoulder before shutting the door.

Olivia watched the door. "They'll kill each other."

Astrid smiled then looked at the monstrous wreck that was the pigeon giblets and grimaced. "I could kill Walter right now."

Olivia glanced at the mess and retreated quickly to her office, "Well, I've got _a lot_ of paperwork to do…"

"Yeah, sure you do," Astrid laughed to herself. _Really, what would you all do without me, _she thought.

Two hours later, Olivia was straining over the stacks of paperwork covering her usually immaculate desk when her phone buzzed, making her jump in surprise. Broyles. She answered the phone quickly.

"Dunham… Yes sir… I'll get them right away… Where are we going? OK."

She sighed in expectant sympathy and pressed "2" on her speed dial. When the connection engaged, she heard Peter talking, irritated, in the background, "Walter, we're not stopping again. We're now four hours late because you spent thirty minutes at Burger King explaining to the cashier exactly 'how you like it.'"

"Hey," came his voice across the line, "apologize to Astrid for the giblets. I owe her lunch or something. God, that girl's got a special place in Heaven reserved for her. What's up?"

"Um, I hate to interrupt your thrilling vacation, but we've got a case. You need to be at Xmenu in Dorchester ASAP."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No."

"Fantastic... . We're coming."


	4. Chapter 4

Olivia was at the crime scene for a few hours before she heard a disruption from the building's entrance.

"Well, if we'd left when we were supposed to, right now we would be half the way there— half way to freedom and relaxation and an exquisitely stocked bar. _And_, we would be out of cell range…" Peter stepped through the back door into the alley where Olivia was surveying the remnants of a dead girl. "Not that I'm complaining or anything."

Peter stopped talking when he saw the body. Unlike any other fringe crime scene he'd been at, nobody else was talking either. But this _was_ different. Most fringe cases were bizarre, surreal, or disgusting, but this was just brutal. The girl was barely recognizable as one. She appeared to be half skinned, muscles and organs ripped from their places and bones broken like twigs. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, though it was arguable that her head was still attached. The good news ended there.

Peter wanted to puke like those agents who'd run to the neighboring alley half an hour ago. They'd exhausted their stomach contents by now and could do no more than dry heave. _Ah, they'll be sore tomorrow_, he thought._ You smart-ass, you're joking? Yup, that's why I haven't hurled in twenty years._ A small breeze that blew through the alley pushed a wall of stench in his face and the 'urge to purge' was overwhelming. Instead he looked the body over from his position next to the garbage bin and began to itemize the damage:

_Broken bones:_

_Left parietal, frontal, mandible, nasal, right zygomatic 5__th__-7__th__ cervical vertebrae, right clavicle, fourth, seventh, and first left ribs, second right rib, left ilium, left and right patella, crushed feet, probably more if they rolled her over._

_Lacerations:_

_Everywhere. External and internal intercostals muscles shredded, external obliques severed, pectorals, deltoids, supinator, iliopsoas, apparently all of the gluteals, sartorius, quadriceps, hamstrings, likely dozens of other superficial muscles, all of them sliced, stabbed, or ripped, some of them missing. Not to mention the skin. _

_Shit. What kind of trash would do this? What kind of question is that? Too many fucking bastards out there who do shit like this. I'd kill any one of them, no hesitation, no sleep lost. Fuckers piss around destroying people's live; they shoot them, stab them, beat them, or just fuck their lives over and leave them with the mess. Damn it. Shit. _

_At least I don't need to puke anymore. _

"Hey, you OK?"

He'd been staring blankly at the body for the last fifteen minutes until Olivia approached him.

"Hmm? Yeah, what's up?"

"They're transporting the body back to the lab. We're ready to go."

"Ah, OK, let's go."

"Right."

They climbed in the Lincoln and pulled out of the club parking lot. After driving for twenty minutes in silence, Peter spoke up. "That didn't look like a fringe case. It looked like something for homicide. What are we here for?"

"You didn't hear Broyles' brief?"

"Guess not. Must've been out of earshot."

"Right… Well, Annette Benning was a dancer at Xmenu. Some of the other girls said they saw her going home with some new guy a few days in a row, said he seemed nice, _different_, but nice. One night he comes storming in, yelling at her like a lunatic, smashing up the bar, then screams, grabs his head and runs out of the joint."

"Crazy?"

"Maybe, but the other girls said she'd been complaining that he never slept more than ten minutes a night, started going out in the middle of the night a couple of times a week. Whenever he came back, he acted unstable and confused, did things that were apparently out of character. Three days ago, she came in to work, said she dumped him. She was worked up that he'd gone completely nuts. She'd had a fight with him, he'd slapped her around and she punched him in the face. She said he bled yellow."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter and Olivia were only several minutes behind Walter and Astrid, but it was enough time for Walter to whip the lab into a frenzy of activity. He had books strewn across the counters and chemicals bubbling on any open surface. He was waving his hands frenetically, like a conductor, barking directions for Astrid to pile yet more papers on the lab counters.

"Look under 'V" for ve, vo, vur… v-vortex, velum? Vector. V, vuh, vuh, vuh, ven, ventricle – "

"Vanabin?" Peter interjected as he jogged down the stairs. "Look for hemovanadin."

"Vanabin, yes, that's it. Yes, thank you, yes, that would explain it. Well, perhaps. Maybe only part of it. Or, maybe some blood plasma separated out." Walter was talking to himself the last few sentences, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Walter," Peter objected, "his blood plasma wouldn't separate if you put him in the spin cycle for three days. Besides, if his plasma did separate out somehow, he'd be dead."

"A suggestion, however unlikely. More reasonable would be a dye or a reaction to some medication. Or an indicator of some kind – like phenolphthalene."

"It can't be phenol. To get that color, his blood pH would be like vinegar and, once again, he'd be dead. We can't know what caused the color change if we don't have a sample of this guy's blood."

"Hey guys, care to share your ideas with the rest of the class?" Olivia cut in, perturbed at all the unexplained science talk and clearly looking for translation.

"Ah, yeah," Peter exhaled loudly, "Walter mentioned the blood plasma because pure plasma is yellow. Thing is, it takes high speed rotation to separate the solid components of blood—red and white cells and platelets—from the liquid—plasma. And as already noted, if his plasma _was _separated from his blood, he'd be toast.

"Vanabin is a vanadium based protein group that partially composes hemovanadin. So far as anyone knows, it's just a pigment, makes sea cucumbers' blood yellow. It makes more sense, but not much. There's no reason for this guy to have vanadium in his blood."

"No matter the probability or aesthetic of the hypotheses we conjure up," Walter continued, "we absolutely need a sample of this young man's blood to ascertain the aberrant compound and its effect on him."

"Do we even know what the guy looks like?" Peter asked.

"The dancers said he was average height, had brown hair, and looked 'normal,'" Olivia returned.

"Oh, well, that's immensely helpful. It'll take no time at all for Astrid to run through the two million brown-haired Average Joes in the greater Boston area and Spidey-sense-out our boy. Will it Astrid?"

Astrid looked over her computer and deadpanned, "not at all. Should I do that before or after I cure cancer and achieve cold fusion?"

Peter scoffed, "what, you can't multitask?"

"Heh, as nice as that would be, I'd really like to see cold fusion, so, maybe let her concentrate on that until we have a more concrete lead on our unsub. In the mean time, I'm gonna go back to the club and talk to the bartender and any of the other dancers who've filtered in since we left. Um, you stay and help Walter with the girl—see if he got any of his blood on her?"

"Ok. You sure you don't want some company?" Peter asked.

Olivia looked back—she was halfway up the stairs already. "Yeah. Judging from the number of pieces Annette Benning's in, Walter's gonna need all the help he can get."

"True," Peter muttered as he half-turned to survey his charge, spread out on the autopsy table in the middle of the lab. The door slammed closed in the background. _I always get the good jobs._

…

Six hours, five pairs of latex gloves, and five take-out boxes of Mu Shu pork and sticky rice later, the bottom half of Annette Benning's body was roughly assembled. All foreign substances were properly tagged and processed, including the three pieces of Walter's Red Vine that he had lost during his rabbit track exposition on how the girl's shredded pectorals reminded him of his grocer's deli, in which he had used the long candy as an illustrative pointer, much to the disgust of his young helpers. It was well past dark when Olivia entered on that scene and resignedly proclaimed "That was a waste. I spent all day talking to waiters, dancers, and god-knows who else at that club and all I know is that he had brown hair, looked normal, and 'he might have been a bit taller than average.' Hell, Peter, _you_ fit that description."

"Well, I was at home, trying to keep Walter from packing his bong. And besides," he said, throwing his hand towards his chest with deliberate melodrama, "_I_ look far better than 'normal.'"

"Yeah, whatever. We've got nothing on this guy, unless Walter pulled something off the body."

"He found the usual: hair, nail chips, a few fingerprints on the girl's belt, but none of it matched to the databases. The guy's not in the system. We sent Astrid home a couple of hours ago when we ran out of searches for her to run and disturbing things for her to do with severed tendons."

"Terrific," Olivia breathed, running a hand over her face.

"Come on, sit down. There's not anything you can do tonight. Eat the rest of this Chinese food; I really don't want to take it home and see what Walter tries to grow in it. Come on." Peter steered her towards one of the semi-cleared lab benches and deposited the cooled leftovers in front of her face. "Eat."

"Bossy."

"Yup."

Peter roamed the lab, picking up trash and stashing the lab equipment used during the day, carefully stealing some of the pieces Walter was still using, silently urging him to cease the bubbling fluids and close all the gas valves—time to go home. He had successfully conned Walter into an agreeable secession of all lab activity by the time Olivia finished eating. He grinned quietly at the victory as he swatted the old man up the stairs, stopping only to turn around and admonish Olivia, still sitting at the lab bench, "go home…_now_."

_Sheesh. So bossy._


	6. Chapter 6

*Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.*

_Ringing? _

_Uhh, more ringing. _

_Is that a phone?_

*Ring. Ring_._*

_Yup, that's a phone. _

_Crap. _

_Coughing? Something's coughing. _

_I'm coughing. _

_Great. Even more crap. _

_Nope, actually, that's phlegm. Phone still ringing. _

_Answer the phone. _

_Answer the phone. _

_Wake up? _

_Please? _

_You really should answer the phone. _

_Uff. Ok, I'm coming, just stop ringing._

"Hello?"

"Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You need to get Walter. We have another body."

"Huh, Ok. Hey, I can't see any light through my windows. You wouldn't know why that is would you?"

"Yeah, it's three a.m."

"Oh, crap, I've slept in. Thanks so much for—" _cough_ "—calling and waking my bum ass up. Really, all this excess sleep is going to dull my senses. I should probably stay away from heavy machinery."

Slight laugh. "Ok, well get Walter quickly. We're in Dorchester again."

"Lovely." _Click._

_Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. Wouldn't Walter just love that?_

"Walter! Walter? Hey, you need to ge—pants please. We need to go."

The old man managed a surprising amount of excitement and impatience despite his groggy, half-conscious state. "Another body?"

"Yeah, we need to leave."

"Oh, wonderful, let me get my kit together." Walter practically giggled as he streaked out of the room with a speed belying his age.

"Walter, get some pants first," Peter yelled through the door.

In several minutes the two were packed in the station wagon, Walter fidgeting in nervous anticipation and singing the Savage Seven theme song, looping the chorus indefinitely because it was all he knew. Much to the disservice of Peter's sanity, Walter modulated the volume of his song proportionate to the level of background noise, breaking out with full operatic vibrato when Peter exited off the freeway and on to the slightly corrugated roads of Dorchester.

Desperate to get out of the car after rolling down his window to the roar of the wind did not effectively mask Walter's never-ending serenade, Peter took the smaller streets at fifty, merely slowing at stop signs. Just as Walter was about to repeat his performance, Peter made a skidding left-turn into the Heavenly Bodies lot, threw the car in park, and exploded from the vehicle, relieved, irritated, and hacking up a lung.

Everyone at the crime scene looked up to observe the station wagon, hastily parked in the middle of a driving lane and the emerging occupants in a similar state of confusion. The passenger shuffled his feet giddily while rummaging through the back seat and the driver nearly face-planted, tripping over himself to get out of the car, simultaneously yelling at his father, "putting up with you, _I_ should be the one on drugs."

"If you ask me, both of them are crazy," one of the field agents said off-handedly to Olivia.

She stood from her crouched position next to the body, "I don't think anybody did ask you."

The agent looked around jerkily and excused himself to do something he was sure he needed to do somewhere else.

"Peter, Peter," Walter yelled across the parking lot (Peter had put as much distance as he could between himself and his father), "Peter, do you have the resorcinol? I have torn my kit apart and have only found my LS—"

"YES. I have your things," Peter quickly talked over the end of that sentence. "I have the acid too."

"Oh, really? I thought I had that," Walter said as he scurried to keep up. "But if you have some as well, that is fine. You can never have too much LS—"

"_PHOSPHORIC_ acid, Walter," Peter barked hoarsely as he reached the body, giving his father the best _being-an-FBI-consultant-does-not-exempt-you-or-your-legal-guardian-from-the-correction-of-the-law-so-shut-up _look he could muster while coughing viciously into his jacket. The look was lost on Walter. He was already lost in Walter-World, his only tether to the reality that everyone else spent the majority of their time in was his tuneless humming.

"At least it's not the Savage Seven theme," Peter mumbled, "I liked that show."

Walter grabbed the vial of resorcinol and spray bottle of phosphoric acid from Peter's hands in one swift swipe, projecting as he turned down towards the body, "I must have all the samples collected here. And pictures, please, I need to paint the body with this resorcinol. Is everything here? Please hand it over. I must assure that everything is collected."

Olivia looked around and motioned to the two young field agents who had heretofore successfully avoided the strange old man who sniffed all the evidence. "Give the samples you took to Dr. Bishop, please. Walter, do you want to take the body to your lab first?"

"No, I need this area blocked off. Our suspect killed this girl here and I need to test for his blood."

Walter turned toward the body and began to swab the area with a Q-tip.

Olivia looked questioningly at Peter.

"Vanadium reacts with resorcinol and phosphoric acid to fluoresce under filtered UV light."

"Oh. How long do you think it'll take him to process the area?"

"Thirty minutes, five hours. He just woke up and he hasn't eaten, so your guess is as good as mine. But I'd make the over bet."

"Great."

Olivia broke off and approached Walter.

"Hey, Walter, before you get too involved in that, could you take molds of the victim's teeth so we can run a check for her dental records while you work? Walter?" He didn't answer. "Walter. Walter!"

Peter rolled his eyes and crouched next to the body. He looked at Walter, so concentrated on that gruesome sight, then turned back to the victim and pretended to cough all over her.

"Peter!" Walter's head shot up and his face was contorted in horror and disgust. "What are you doing – you'll contaminate the scene," he whined.

Peter ducked his head as he laughed and coughed uncontrollably. "Walter, Olivia needs you to take molds of this girl's teeth before you sign-off of planet earth. Please do it now."

"I'm busy right now. I'll do it in a while."

"If you do it now, I'll go get you some cranberry orange bagels from Bruegger's Bakery."

"With the honey walnut cream cheese?"

"Extra walnuts."

Without a word, Walter pulled the molding clay out of his kit and worked a palm-full over the girl's teeth, running a thumb over her gum line to make a seal.

"That's a good lab rat. I'll be back."

"Oh, Peter," Walter called after him. "Be sure to tell that lovely girl who works at the counter that she must wear purple more often. It brings out a wonderful periwinkle tint in her eyes."

"Yeah, I'll do that."


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for taking so long to update. I hope y'all are still interested. Thanks for reading.**

_That was lovely. Such a nice girl._

"I guess."

_I do wish we could find a more convenient place to shop. It takes too long to get there now._

"It's only a twenty minute drive."

_Twenty minutes is too long. After all, we have to find one once we get there. And you're never very helpful – you're much too nervous and you make me do all the work._

"What should it matter to you? You enjoy it."

_I would enjoy it more if you weren't so picky. You should know I have high standards, but so long as she meets my structural requirements, I am not choosy. You, however, dismiss one after the other to satisfy your fanatical fancies only to go lily-livered once you find her._

"I'm not used to this. You were born for it."

_Stupid, I'm just willing to do the things you want to do. We are the same. You want there to be a difference so that you can separate yourself from what you don't understand. That is ignorance – you are learning the power of doing what your mind tells you to do. Just enjoy yourself._

"I do. I—I just don't know if I can help you anymore. What if somebody catches us? I can't – I can't get caught."

_We won't get caught. I have help – guidance. I know what we have to do. Now let's go. I'm bored._

…

_This place looks nice. Pull over here._

"No, this is too close. Too close to us, we have to keep going."

_Nothing is too close if you're careful. I always tell you how to be careful, don't I? Can you dispute that I am thorough?_

"No, but-"

_But you doubt me._

"NO, I just-"

_You doubt the instructions._

"I guess so. I don't understand the point."

_Never mind that. Just get out of the car. We'll have to check in soon._

…

Olivia burst through the lab doors in the late-afternoon, folders and pictures spilling out of her overstuffed arms and pleaded, "Peter, Walter, tell me you have some good news on this body, because the rest of the case is going terribly."

Peter walked up the stairs to help carry some of the files threatening to scatter across the floor.

"Well, Walter determined that yellow compound is a vanadium-based organo-ionic complex. As soon as he isolates the compound, he'll probably be able to give you a more concrete formula and an idea of its purpose."

"I guess that's good. Go get him another bagel if it'll make him work faster."

"Yeah, he has already had six and I don't like doing plumbing, so no."

"Then remind him that two girls have been killed in as many days and there are probably more to come."

"I think he knows that, he's been working non-stop since we got called fifteen hours ago."

Olivia was already walking down the stairs to her office as she yelled back in distracted exasperation, "Well he needs to speed up. And what have you been doing all day, other than running to the—"

"Hey," Peter interrupted her loudly, "think before you finish that sentence."

She turned around, mouth agape, trying to conjure up a way to retract her almost insult without anybody noticing, and saw everybody in the lab staring at her with various degrees of confusion and perturbation. So instead of acting apologetic, which probably would've worked, she affected indignation, huffing and slamming her office door shut.

Peter turned, shaking his head and swiped a handful of blood vials off the lab bench next to Walter. He popped them in the centrifuge and closed the lid, punching the button to initiate the swirling machine as he coughed violently into his shirt sleeve.

"You look pale, son," Walter murmured, assuming that look of concerned fixation he had whenever his boy so much as sneezed. It was one of the more disconcerting things he did.

_Like he expects me to drop dead if I get a headache. He'll gladly hook me up to a dead guy and electrocute me, but he thinks the world's gonna end if I don't eat breakfast._

"You should take something for your cough," Walter continued. "You risk doing permanent damage to your vocal folds with the chronic irritation."

"Walter, I'm fine, thank you," Peter interrupted him with a pat on the shoulder. It had a patronizing overtone, but thinly veiled was a wary affection and appreciation for even the most disturbing attentions Walter could manage. After all, emotion comes easily, acceptance lags.

When the centrifuge beeped that shrill announcement that it was finished with its latest task, Peter retrieved the vials and held them open-handed towards Walter.

"Do you think you can isolate the compound now?" He almost whispered – an involuntary reaction to Walter's blank-eyed, burdened face. The old man's gaze slowly shifted into focus, landing on the blood samples. "Yes," Walter replied, almost inaudibly. He took the blood and walked over to his table, quietly extracting small quantities of the fluid with his pipette and transferring it to a series of test tubes.

Just like that, everything seemed dark. Peter had largely adjusted himself to Walter's oddities, but the man's sudden, unexpected mood shifts always irradiated any sense of balance he'd gained – like the swing from an ultimate high to a sad silence could still every molecule of his being and chill his congenial ignorance into half-conscious suspicion. More than anyone he had met Walter could unknowingly manipulate his mind. That fragile equilibrium between loving the sweet, bumbling, food fetishist, and loyally distrusting his well camouflaged volatile temper wavered with every cycle of his disorienting emotions.

_That is one person I don't know how to work._

"Peter," a tired voice sounded behind him. "He's killed again."


	8. Chapter 8

He sat as still as he could, though the restraints told him moving wasn't really an option. His breathing was also restrained, like there was a vice around his lungs, and he didn't blink. He sat tense and unmoving like a statue, only his eyes betraying life. Those followed the other man in the room, predatory and angry, stopping when he wanted to bore a hole through the larger man. Every so often, that man –his _father?_ – would turn to look at the small body strapped to the chair and nearly step back when he saw the expression: five percent terror, ten percent defiance, and eighty-five percent rage, all adding up to the most primal aspect of homicide he ever expected to witness on a human being outside of his nightmares.

For now, that silent promise was a place-holder. For now, the predator wore a lab coat and doled out drugs like candy. The drugs ripped new doors and forged new neural paths through a throbbing mind and left the body shuddering on an excruciating acid high. Then followed the second dose – the dose that would make him forget everything. It erased everything except the ache and the bitter, anchorless hate. And that dose was always the worst. With every dissolving memory, he felt like the drugs and _that man_ were taking his humanity, his identity, burning his soul until it was shapeless and dead.

He felt like a black hole, no attributes but the ones he sucked in to fill the blankness. He grabbed what was nearest, incorporating the worst parts of deception, distrust, and instability; and that indescribable pain when the drugs took effect and pilfered the last images he had. The memories would flash in his consciousness, burning brighter than they had when they formed, leaving an indelible imprint before they evaporated: the feeling of sweat and sickness, the shimmering wall, cold airlessness, a sensory-deprived savior, the experience of naively holding his father's hand before he was scalded out of affection by this treachery. He fought to keep that memory hardest of all, desperately wanting something to prove that this hurt was inflicted out of love and not manipulation. It was useless though. There was no way to stave off the effects of the medications. They were inhuman and did their jobs efficiently in a way flesh and blood could not combat. The fight was over as soon as it began.

From then on, uneasiness was normal and dreams were dark, shapeless nightmares. There was no cause to question it anymore.

Peter woke from the worst dream he had had in decades: the clear, clinically detailed picture of his father torturing him, taking _something_ from him that he couldn't identify. Whatever it was left him cold, as if he had soaked in a bone-chilling, heart-stopping ice bath until every bodily function had stilled so much that he could feel himself _think_. That simple action should warm him as should his sky-high pulse, but it didn't. He just sat still as stone, mirroring the physical memories from his dream, grasping hopefully for the rest.

Eventually, coughing overtook him and forced him into reality. He had fallen asleep on a lab stool, slouched over the bench next to a bubbling boiling flask and a jar filled with some bizarre tissue experiment. He looked around the lab and saw three bodies. The third confused him until he remembered that the team had been called out to yet another murder, the victim now diffused over several autopsy tables.

Whoever their killer was, he had just changed his mark. Though he had killed the latest one in the same incalculably horrific manner, this victim was a man and they'd found him outside his home on Willard Street in Cambridge. How this psycho had managed to slice and dice a guy into a thousand pieces while his neighbors were watching TV and playing Monopoly was unnerving enough, but what bothered everybody the most was that he had switched focus and location.

_How in God's name are we gonna find this fucker, _became one of the many unanswered questions that would plague the team for an immeasurable time.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: To anybody who is still reading this story: I am very sorry for ignoring it for this long. Unfortunately, real life demanded my attention and I could not reasonably tell it to urinate up an electric fence. That said, while this chapter is relatively uneventful, it begins the revelation. Thanks for hanging in with me. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. _

Olivia walked through the lab doors about half an hour later, just missing Peter as he left campus. She walked down the stairs and searched every room and corner of the old lab. Finding nobody, she fished through her pockets and pulled out her phone to dial Astrid. When the lab assistant finally answered, exasperation was clear in her voice, though it was barely audible over the horrendous din in the background.

"Astrid?"

"Hold on a minute," Olivia heard the muffled exchanged that ensued.

"Walter, don't do that with the burner on, you'll blow up the house. And please keep quiet long enough for me to take this call – it's Olivia."

"Has she gotten Peter, he shouldn't stay there alone. We shouldn't have left him there, he would have fit in your car. Does she have him?"

"I don't read minds. If you'll give me some silence, I could talk to her and find out."

Olivia heard some mumbled response when Astrid returned to the phone.

"Sorry about that. What's up?"

"Peter's not at the lab. He's probably on his way there."

"OK, I'll wait with Walter until he gets home."

Olivia had already hung up.

…

Sleep had been sparse for the team since this case began and it was crippling their efficiency. With no more than four hours of rest in the past forty-eight, everybody was making stupid mistakes. Walter nearly poured Clorox on the last victim, Olivia tried with admirable determination to drive off the road, and Peter almost washed his face in acid. Therefore, when Peter got to the house, he immediately retreated to bed, slowing only to send Astrid home and assure Walter he was not bleeding.

When he lay down, an intense fit of coughing immediately assaulted him and would not cease as long as he was horizontal. He moved to a minimally padded desk chair, leaned his head against a bookcase, and drifted into a shallow and unrestful sleep.

As if on cue, the phone rang. Again. Immediately after Peter answered, Olivia launched into a warp-speed tirade that did not quite permeate the thick fog in his brain. He only managed to discern "video feed," "corner store," and "bring Walter with you" before she hung up. Not a word registered completely. He would have sat, catatonic, until he shifted back into unconsciousness, but his infected bronchial tubes required immediate expectoration. Five minutes later, after seemingly producing enough phlegm to fill a mason jar, Peter tripped down the stairs to rouse Walter and attend to what they could only assume was another body.

Walking through the doors of the lab, the Bishops entered almost complete darkness. Only after fumbling around the landing, vainly searching for the light switch and instead falling down the first several steps towards the lower level, did either man notice the diffused blue glow coming from the downstairs office. High stepping to avoid books and boxes, they found Olivia bent toward her computer screen, oblivious of their arrival.

"Olivia, I sure hope you didn't wake me up to watch Youtube," Peter cracked. If he did not joke, he was going to cry.

Olivia's head jerked up like a puppeteer had yanked an invisible string. She shot out of her chair and motioned them over with curt, clipped signals. She was at that stage of fatigue where she was jittering with nervous, tired energy, but her body forced conservation by truncating every movement to its smallest recognizable extent. She was a medical resident without the scalpel or scrubs.

"I was looking through the security videos from a few of the convenient stores near the Harold's residence. Take a look at this," she pointed to the computer screen.

Walter and Peter moved over to watch the feed. They saw a grainy black and white picture trained on the cash register, stuttering forward irregularly and cutting out in places. Neither saw anything particularly useful – the cashier picked his nose and the only noteworthy customer was a twenty-something stoner stuffing his arms with Nutter Butters. A few mundane characters passed into view, but the end of the video left Peter and Walter staring at Olivia questioningly, wondering if she might need some time off.

"Didn't you see him," she asked as if they had missed a nuclear explosion.

"No."

She huffed in exasperation and fumbled to rewind the tape by three minutes. She freeze-framed the feed and stepped back, triumphant. She allowed the Bishops about three seconds of confused inspection while she bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet before she pointed at the screen and barked, "Do you see him?"

Peter followed the imaginary line of her directive and saw the cashier. He stared dumbly at the singularly nondescript man for an excruciating fraction of a minute before glancing, frustrated, at Olivia and looking elsewhere on the screen. Finally, he reached the lower left corner of the video and locked on a blank faced man, dressed too formally for his surroundings.


End file.
